


His Hands, A Harbour

by orphan_account



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham Academy (Comics)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Pining, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:02:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26052343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: You remember many pairs of hands. It’s always the first thing you notice about someone. You find them fascinating, in a way, or perhaps compelling is closer to the mark. There’s something about the way they describe the person they belong to, you think, that makes you pay close attention. You learned to do that the hard way. You couldn’t afford not to.(Second Semester #6, Colton's POV)
Relationships: Kyle Mizoguchi/Colton Rivera
Kudos: 8





	His Hands, A Harbour

"It’s all gonna be okay."

You remember many pairs of hands. It’s always the first thing you notice about someone. You find them fascinating, in a way, or perhaps compelling is closer to the mark. There’s something about the way they describe the person they belong to, you think, that makes you pay close attention. You learned to do that the hard way. You couldn’t afford not to.

It was the first thing you noticed about him, too—although if you’re honest, the sum total of him is sometimes so overwhelming that you think maybe you just became aware all at once—his hands gripping a racket firmly, curled away from the body as if to greet the incoming ball like a business partner. There was no malice in that gesture, nothing angry in the muted "poc!" as he made the return: he didn’t chastise the racket as it swung in a gentle arc across his chest. 

You feel as though your whole life has been some long, slow procession between the hands of people stronger than you. Your parents, your teachers, your friends; a little part of you spilling over every time, like a palmful of precious water passed gingerly on. By running away, you thought perhaps you could finally escape that, if only for a short while. You’re tired of feeling yourself slosh against the sides of everyone you meet, everyone who is meant to look after you; you’re tired of this general disembodied sense of unease that comes from never knowing when the next blow is coming, that quiet involuntary hope when the body uncurls between one impact and the next.

You were tired of that.

And now you’re in _his_ hands, and you can feel yourself foaming at the edges as he speaks softly at the back of your head. You’re in _his_ hands, one cupping your shoulder but yet somehow still wrapping around all of you, and you’d think that it’d be something to shy away from, but it’s not. It’s the unwavering gentleness of it that you find yourself leaning into most of all: these hands feel like a shelter. And in some strange way you dislike the safety of it, the safety he’s giving you right now, because safe means certain, and certain is devoid of risk, and despite your inhibitions you might be willing to risk something, here, if not for your better judgement. Being held like this is a promise of what is, rather than what might be.

The distance between those two things aches a little. 

"It’s all gonna be okay", he says, as he folds you into a paper boat, and you drift for a while against his rib cage with his hands lapping up against your back. His hands are many things to you, but in this moment they are a harbour.


End file.
